


Star Without the Skies

by heracles



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Bad Parenting, Character(s) of Color, Developing Friendships, Diary/Journal, Falling In Love, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, Harry is a sweetheart, Hogwarts Era, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Loneliness, M/M, POV Blaise Zabini, Prophetic Dreams, References to Depression, Seer Blaise Zabini, Slow Burn, Slytherins Being Slytherins
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-19
Updated: 2017-12-05
Packaged: 2018-12-26 16:37:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,983
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12062916
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heracles/pseuds/heracles
Summary: "I have come to view Harry as somewhat of a friend of mine and, though he does not know of my existence, I believe there is a connection between us. Why else would I dream of him far more than any other?"Blaise Zabini is a seer, whose visions are strangely fixated on Harry.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> this work is unbeta-ed but hopefully you enjoy it anyway :)
> 
> comment constructively (or just to say you like it!) and give kudos if you do enjoy it. thanks!

Maria Zabini was a cold woman. By pureblood standards her demeanour would be nigh on perfect. Though, were it not for Blaise’s father, she would never have been in with social circles of the Malfoys and the Blacks. And were it not for Blaise, she would still be.   

She had never wanted to be a mother. Blaise knew this because she told him so several times, voice filled with soft disdain when he asked her if she hated him. She could never had got rid of him, either. He was a pureblood, the heir of the House, and she would be nothing without him.    

Maria had once been beautiful - so she said, her soft soft hand trailing down his high cheekbone, lightly tracing his regal nose, stroking around his big hazel eyes and gripping his defined chin hard enough to bruise and with nails sharp enough to draw blood. Blaise believed her, then, and had never again asked what she looked like under her dark veil.    

From a young age, as far back as he could remember, Blaise had been terrified of Maria. Always Maria, never Mum or even Mother - and once he had said so to her, too. Her laughter was vicious and cold and had immediately brought tears to his eyes.    

Seeing his frightened little face, she had reached out and he had flinched. She didn't hurt him though, merely took him by the arm and led him to a room he had never been in before.   

There were several paintings, placed neatly in mere centimetre intervals, but he dared not take more than a passing glance at them. Instead, he looked straight ahead at a blank stretch of wall and hid his trembling hands behind his back.    

"You are free to look, Blaise," she said, voice devoid of malice but still held no warmth. Never for him. "Just mind you do not look too long. One could say there is... Madness upon these walls."    

Blaise hadn't wanted to look. It had sounded scary and he didn't want to look at more Madness. The dreams hadn't started back then. At least, not the ones that foretold the future.    

He did have one dream, though, a recurring one. This one was only of the present and only showed one scene: his father, of whom he was the spitting image, staring blankly with dead eyes though he lived. The only emotion he showed was when he screamed and screamed and screamed before falling silent once again, a statue carved of pain and sadness.    

And he knew it was real, too. For it was more memory than mere dream and though Blaise had only seen his father the once in the flesh, he visited him a thousand times afterward. It always hurt and it never stopped hurting as he wished it were Maria instead.

Maria hadn't let him say no. For she only had to touch his chin with a finger for him to obey.  And Blaise had looked, tears streaming down his face, desperately trying not to make a sound of his despair.    

The paintings were of him, all of them, as he was then. Barely six years old and already stoic and weary. He could tell, though, that they were not him. Not in any fabric of reality.

Face upon face of a happy Blaise had looked down on him. And as he looked, details came filling in. Blaise and his father, chatting by the warmth of a fire. Blaise and a little girl, a sister, laughing and playing. And - here Blaise choked out a sob - Blaise and a beautiful woman with a warm smile and even warmer eyes. Maria. But not as Maria. That woman had never been Maria to That Blaise; only ever Mum.    

Blaise remembered the way it had felt like a piece of him had broken, twisted away from him and rotted away into blood and ash. There had been whispers, soft fluttering words that grew that tiny bit louder each time he had strained his ears to listen. And he knew, though only later just how much, he would have gone Mad had he heard what the whispers were trying to say.

It was afterwards - when she had steered him out of the room, no doubt disappointed she could not get rid of him so easily, lest she wished to be destitute - that she had explained to him what she had shown him. And just what exactly she so viciously had stolen from him.    

"That, you horrible child, was a little something from my own family. Of course it’s meant to be impossible to use against one’s own kin. Perhaps simply blood connection is not enough?  Hmm… It worked rather marvellously, though, don't you say?"    

Questions had always had horrible consequences around Maria but at that moment Blaise felt nothing but morbid curiosity fuelled by anguish. "What was that room?"   

"That," Maria had whispered, leaning close enough for Blaise to see red lips through her veil.  "Has no name. For what name would ever befit it? Tell me, what did you see?"    

Empty as he had felt, Blaise could not conjure up the appropriate words. Maria had seemed not to care. She knew, already. She always knew him best, how to hurt him like no one else.     

"You saw something that will never, ever be. That which you wish with your entire soul could be." There she had stopped and taken a deep breath through her nose as though she smelt something heavenly. "And in its power is the very little fact that any of those desires would have been possible were you not yourself. Cruel little thing, you are. Destroying even your own desires."

She had left him then, content that she had destroyed him enough for that very moment.

 

* * *

   

When the dreams started a month later after that, Blaise had woken up with a scream, the first since nearly a thousand years it seemed, and the first of what would have been millions.

Only, Maria had been there soon, too soon to have been anywhere near sleep.    

She had said, "Happy Birthday" in the way she always did: sharp barbs coated with honey, coating his throat with guilt. Then her hand was once again gripping his chin and, though he could not see them, her eyes bored into his own.   

For the second time, it seemed, she asked him what he had seen. And for the first time, Blaise had firmed himself against his fear of her and lied.

“It was just a silly dream. I apologise for disturbing you.”

It was clear that Maria had been disappointed, once again, by his words but he could not find it in himself to care about that. He had been more concerned and confused about the pained green eyes peeking through the slits of a cupboard under the stairs.

 

* * *

 

_1987_

_I keep having dreams about a boy. He’s my age (I think) because he wrote his age on a picture he drew. It wasn’t a very good picture but neither are Draco’s. I can colour in the lines and also my writing is marvellous. But I think the boy may be more_ _like me than Draco. His Parents hate him just like mine do. I don’t think my dad hates me but that’s just because he doesn’t know me. I think if he did, he would hate me just like Maria does. The boy also has sad eyes but they’re green and mine are brown. I think I would have sad eyes too but I’m not allowed to cry anymore. I don’t mind it that much because crying hurts and Maria likes it when I hurt. Anyway, they’re just dreams, aren’t they? I’ve always been alone._

 

* * *

 

_1988_

_I'm scared. When I sleep I see things. I never used to dream before and the ones I have are ugly and sad. I'm always feeling sad but it's like I'm someone else in the dreams. It doesn't feel like_ me _but it always hurts too much to be someone else. Maria says I feel too much but I always thought it was a good thing. Isn't it better to not be cold all the time? I'm not like other seven year olds. I feel I'm much more clever and understand things other children, like Draco, wouldn't ever. But I still feel so much and lately it's almost too much. If it didn't irritate Maria so much I would cut off these feelings._

_It's not supposed to be like this, is it? I wonder if I could, just once, know what happiness felt like. Would my dreams stop me suffering to show me?_

 

* * *

 

_1989_

_I’ve continued to dream of the sad eyed boy. At this point, I believe they may be real. I can’t explain how I believe this but, in a sense, it feels magical. I fear I may be cursed._

_I’ve dreamt of something happening with Draco and, afterwards, the very thing happened in real life. It had been an insignificant event but I don’t believe in coincidences._

_I’ve dreamt of a great many things, most of which are horrible, but mostly I dream of the boy._

_Freak, they call him, but that’s not his name. His name is Harry. Right now he is sad and lonely (like me) but I have Seen what he becomes. He will be wonderful and great and kind and I wonder if we would be friends. The dreams don't show me what my future holds._

_He’s much smaller than I am even though I’m only five months older. But I don’t think that’s his fault. His relatives – and, as I’ve come to understand it, not his parents - are awful to him. They make him work in the garden all morning long and, afterwards, he’s to clean the rest of the house. And then they barely feed him a scrap of bread before locking him in a tiny cupboard under the stairs. He’s small enough to fit right now – but for how long?_

_I know he doesn’t die there with those muggles but I still worry for him. I try not to listen to what Maria says but I think she might be right about muggles. They’re really disgusting to treat a child like that – a magical one, no less. I’ve not yet seen much of their future but I hope it’s horrible._

 

* * *

 

_1991_

_Harry really is magnificent. He spoke to a snake! And I don’t mean simply talking like one would to a pet but he truly spoke to the snake in a way that it understood. It really is strange how I could understand the meaning behind the hissing as though I were a parselmouth myself. I doubt that Harry understood the significance of it, nor did he seem to realise that he had performed magic afterward. I don’t know how he could not put together the fact that he is special. In every case of him performing accidental magic – and quite powerfully, at that – he never quite grasps that it stems from himself. For all that I think he is wonderful he really can be quite daft._

_Once again, I do think those hideous muggles are responsible. I See what they’ve attempted to do – as if a beating were to render him a squib! The idea is appalling and, now that I’ve finally Seen what becomes of him, it sickens me that the whale has a few years in him left._

_Seeing that lard of a cousin trapped behind the glass had been amusing but I do wish it hadn’t come at the expense of Harry’s health. He is strong but I sometimes wonder that his misery is just another way to punish me, as well._

_I had, after all, never proven that Maria had not cursed me with this wretched Sight. Its hurts too much._

 

* * *

 

_1991_

_Today I saw Harry for the first time outside of the dreams. He really is tiny, even more so beside that half-breed, Hagrid. In any other case I might have been appalled at the sight of the oaf but I have Seen him and, surprisingly, he is a kind man._

_I do find it somewhat suspicious that he was to escort Harry for the first time into the Wizarding World. He is, after all, only a Groundskeeper. And though he wields his illegal magic through that ridiculous umbrella of his, he is hardly qualified to protect Harry._

_I have come to the realisation that my Harry is, in fact, the Harry Potter. The one to defeat the Dark Lord. This is astonishing to me if only for the fact that I have missed the obvious clues to this – lightning bolt scar! – and not because I believe Harry incapable. I know he is special but then I wonder if many others would pick up on this were it not for his fame._

_Harry prefers not to be taken much notice of. I fear he may wilt under the pressuring eyes of the wizarding public._

_It’s times like these that I begin to doubt the truth of the future I’ve dreamt. Surely Harry is too soft to take on the danger I’ve seen him face?_

 

* * *

 

Blaise awoke early, as he usually did, on the first of September. Although the lightened sky peeking through his curtains held an average hue, and the birds chattered as though it were any other day, he felt a faint excitement beginning to thrum through him.

His trunk was packed to his usual perfection and his plain black robes hung crisply upon the front of his wardrobe. Blaise eyed them, sparing a brief thought to what colour the lining would hold by the end of the day, before shaking it off and rising to get ready.

By the time he made it to the breakfast room, a golden light had filtered through the high arched windows, highlighting his favourite foods lined up along the glossy table. Blaise's stomach rumbled at the enticing scents wafting in his direction, then twisted sharply at the darkly veiled figure sat at the head of the table.

Even after years of being made to interact with Maria, although more rarely as of late, he couldn't help the bitter sting of fear she always managed to fill him with.

Despite this, his mask of indifference held firm through his practice, and he was able to seat himself with minimal discomfort. He voiced no greeting and none was forthcoming from Maria's end, either.

Maria did not always join him at mealtimes; he more often ate alone, with the occasional company of a house elf when he was younger and she didn't care enough to intercept it.

When she did it was almost always borne because she wished to be extra spiteful that day. It did not surprise Blaise that she felt that way today; he could already feel the tiny spark of happiness within him wither away.

Still, he ate, even as the taste barely made it through his numbed tastebuds and his stomach clenched almost painfully. He barely glanced up throughout the meal, almost able to convince himself that the regal woman was simply an icy shadow upon his fair autumn day.

The sharp edge of that darkness was very real, however, as he was reminded when he stood to take his leave as soon as he could.

“Sit,” the smooth tone halted him from standing fully and, clenched jaw halting his spontaneous need to defy, Blaise stared expectantly at the veiled woman.

“You leave today,” she said unexpectedly. Blaise hadn't thought she deigned to care but she wasn't done yet.

Generally, Maria was satisfied if he merely nodded along meekly but today the silence stretched on until Blaise managed a quiet, “Yes, Maria.”

His raspy voice had him licking his lip nervously and he cursed himself for his weakness. The rough sound was indicative of just how long he had gone without talking; he would have to remedy that before conversing with anyone on the train.

“I've waited a long time for this day,” said Maria, no inflection in her tone, not even the barbed iciness she reserved for reminding him how unwanted he was. “I expect you'll remain at Hogwarts come winter break. I'll be busy.”

Blaise ducked his head, despite his best efforts to remain unaffected. He was not saddened - he had not planned on returning if he could help it - but he still felt a deep anger in his chest, along with an irritating warmth of shame in his cheeks.

Maria would likely be ‘busy’ working her charms on her latest conquest through copious usage of glamour charms. Not that his being there would have made a difference - her constant reminders of, ‘You drove me to this,’ as she made off with the fortune of an unlucky man, made certain that he was nothing more than another reason for her spite.

“As you wish,” said Blaise, the words bitter but necessary. He couldn't wait to escape the stifled air of that room, that house, _her._

“It's a pity that they enforced that idiotic rule of no boarding during the summer,” she went on to say, still in that monotone even as she waved her hand airily.

“Indeed,” said Blaise, words following it up that he desperately wished he could stop, “I imagine we both might have benefitted were that not the case.”

Maria stilled and Blaise froze. The words in themselves were innocent enough, _polite_ even, but it was the fact that he _said_ those words that rankled Maria. In her eyes, he was nothing but a weak little boy, a burden that she sought to ruin as much as she could.

She was usually satisfied to see him meek under her barbs, and as minimally conversant as she wished him to be in any particular moment. Blaise couldn't always determine what her whims were to be at any time; but, more often than not, he was wrong in what he thought he should respond with.

It would have been enough to agree with her and leave it at that, but he had been, to her, _insolent._ He knew he had made a mistake as soon as he had felt the words coming, and the dangerous note to the ensuing silence doubled the rate of his heartbeat.

Before Blaise could utter a quick apology, a retraction, _anything,_ Maria was in front of him. So close to her, he felt shrunken. He was considered tall for an eleven year old but she always served to remind how small he actually was.

For a handful of seconds, they were at a standstill, and then, strangely, she walked away without a single curse. Blaise breathed a sigh of relief and, beyond the painful lump in his throat, he felt fine. Which was suspicious, in itself.

 _Perhaps_ , he thought, frowning, as he stood up and brushed himself off, _she had felt merciful on the day of his departure._

An elf was to escort him to the station, as there was no way his dear _mother_ would take the time to do so. And Blaise would never have thought to have her, either.

Rocco, the ‘babysitter’ elf (which Blaise didn't _need_ , he was _eleven_ ), stood in the front foyer, ready to apparate them to the station. No words were exchanged between them, beyond a respectful ‘Little Master’ from Rocco and a polite nod from Blaise.

If there had been, perhaps Blaise could have saved himself a lot of trouble.

 

* * *

 

King’s Cross Station was full of frantic parents and excitable children, the crowds giving way to the gleaming scarlet train. Rocco had delivered him at the designated apparation spot, promptly disappearing again, after a quick farewell (on his part) and a mutter about chores. What a so called babysitter elf had to do when there were no longer any children around, Blaise had no idea.

It was just as well, Blaise thought, nervously eyeing the looks of concern and quiet pride upon many adults’ faces. It was bittersweet, stood there alone, a spectator on the outside of every pocket of family exchanging their goodbyes.  

The air of excitement still held true to being contagious, though, and Blaise had to bite the corner of his lip to suppress the giggle bursting to be let loose from his chest. With a pat to his pocket to make sure his shrunken trunk had not been forgotten, he set off to find himself a place to sit on the train. Aborted laughter aside, he couldn't help the slight upturn of lips and less than appropriate speed of his walk.

Considering the time was only just past the mark of nine, it was surprising the amount of compartments rapidly filling up. Even so, Blaise took his time strolling along the slightly dusty carpeted passageway, his head turning left and right as he took in the students already seated.

Blaise couldn't deny, not to himself at least, that he was hoping to come across a too small boy with scruffy hair and broken glasses. He didn't yet know whether he would say anything to him but just the thought of seeing him was enough to bring his giddiness back to full force.

His mind buzzed with thoughts, things he might have asked him, had he the courage; was Harry as excited to be going to Hogwarts as Blaise was? Was he as _afraid_? Did he, too, have the incessant fear that everyone would hate him as much as their families did?

Blaise wrinkled his nose - well, perhaps he wouldn't ask that last one. He _wanted_ to, though. Harry was a big part of every Wizarding child’s world, none more so than Blaise's, he liked to think. Everyone would likely want to be his friend, but Blaise almost _needed_ to be his friend.

At night, when he felt especially lonely, he would close his eyes and dream. They weren't always pleasant, but when he saw Harry he at least didn't feel so alone. He only wished Harry could feel that connection too.

As the twenty minute mark came and went, he felt that hope dwindle away. And so, he took the next empty compartment he saw and took it for himself. Still alone with his thoughts, he took the seat by the window, staring out at the families who had come later.

The congregation of people seemed larger, a big group of poorly dressed red haired children seeming to draw attention. Their loud chatter was audible even through the closed window, the woman who looked to be the mother the loudest of all. Blaise wondered what having such a big family was like. To have a mother who spoke stern warnings with that undertone of warmth… But no, he didn't have that; it was better to put it out of his head.

Just as Blaise settled down with the first book he could find, the door to his compartment slammed open. He jumped slightly at the unexpected noise, looking up and ready to deliver a cutting comment at the brute.

He narrowed his eyes; it was two brutes, stood behind a rather smaller boy, with a greater presence and a smirk to rival their size.

“Blaise,” said Draco, strolling in casually while his bodyguards, Crabbe and Goyle, did their jobs and guarded the door.

They weren't exactly friends, Blaise and Draco (and definitely not with those troll statues), but they had grown up together, somewhat. Being that their mothers had been friends before Maria’s… _exile,_ they had seen quite a bit of each other. As such, they addressed each other by first name, regardless of the lack of familiarity behind the act.

“Draco,” Blaise tried to say, but the word got stuck in his throat. He frowned, tried again, with the same result. Draco had been too busy making himself comfortable on the seat opposite, with all the pomp of some king. Blaise wanted to mock him for that - it was just the two of them, who did he think he was impressing? - but the same block pushed his words down.

Draco then, finally, noticed his silence and raised an eyebrow. He liked to think it made him all distinguished like his _father_ , but the befuddled quirk to his mouth ruined it.

“Kneazle got your tongue?” said Draco, then, slyly, “You're not nervous, are you?”

Blaise rolled his eyes. Of course he was nervous, and Draco wasn't fooling anybody with his nonchalant act. Blaise was probably less nervous than Draco pretended not to be; he, at least, knew a little about what to expect. And, Draco had more to worry about disappointing his parents.

When Blaise, once more, tried to respond, he began to get an idea about what was happening. He idly touched his throat. It had to be Maria's doing. He should have known she hadn't simply walked away this morning without some sort of triumph.

It was ridiculous. He almost wanted to laugh, but didn't want to see how well that turned out with no voice. Had she really…?

Looking at it closely, the real motive was obvious: Blaise’s humiliation. He dared to speak out of turn, and so she took his ability to talk. How long it would last, he wasn't sure. But probably enough to make it appear he was spurning whoever spoke to him.

He wasn't stupid. Her goal, as always, was to isolate him. Take away his chance to make connections outside of her twisted one. It was a miracle that Mrs Malfoy had managed to bring her son into contact with him at all.

But, this time, she had underestimated him. She had always cared about social circles more than he did. It did manage to annoy him, however.

Draco was now miming theatrically, his hands grasping at his throat. When still no reaction was garnered from Blaise, he fell against the back of his seat with a huff.

“Honestly,” said Draco, rolling his eyes. “You're just going to ignore me? The entire train ride? Am I supposed to talk to _those_ two?”

He gestured to the two silent boys with a dismissive flick of his head. There was nothing for it, Blaise shrugged helplessly.

“Are you alright?” said Draco finally. The furrow between his fine blond brows suggested concern, but Blaise didn't know if he believed it. They weren't _friends._

Blaise eyed him, reconsidering, for the first time wondering: why _weren't_ they? All points suggested that they should be, but there was a small voice at the back of his head that drowned that thought out.

 _He never noticed_ , it said. _All those times at your house, and he never_ noticed. _The way you flinched whenever Maria entered the room, the way he admired her veil and laughed at her finely structured insults towards you. He went on and on about his perfect parents while you remained silent and he_ never noticed.

It was, perhaps, unfair. Draco was a self absorbed child, at the centre of his parents’ universe - but a child all the same. Would Blaise had taken note if he hadn't lived it, seen scenes similar from Harry's life? He didn't know.

And, all the same, would Blaise have wanted to? Did he want Draco to know?

 _No,_ he realised. He didn't want anyone to know how _shameful_ he was. Maria knew, he knew, and that was it.

 

* * *

 

Later, after a somewhat sullen portion of the trip, Draco suggested they go walking along the train.

Blaise had looked up from the chess game he had silently acquiesced to, narrowing his eyes at him.

He had a good idea as to why Draco had so casually decided he needed to stretch his legs. He had, in the times he wasn't pouting dejectedly when Blaise failed to respond, talked non stop about Harry Potter.

He had went on; one minute lamenting that Harry probably had the majority of their year already clamouring for his attention in some other compartment, the next ‘wondering’ (re: desperately hoping) if he would end up in Slytherin - ‘he _had_ defeated the Dark Lord’.

It was a little annoying, more so since he couldn't tell Draco to shut up, he didn't _know_ Harry.

He also really wanted to go with Draco, to maybe see Harry this time. But he couldn't. Draco was likely to run his mouth, brag about things that Harry had no interest in. He would rather stay away from that train wreck, especially if he wouldn't be able to caution Draco.

So, he shook his head, and watched Draco shrug and take off without him.

Blaise shrugged back, even if it was mostly to himself, and turned to continue the chess match. As he debated whether to employ Draco’s advantageous moves against himself, he couldn't help the twinge of regret in his chest. 

_ It doesn't matter _ , he told himself,  _ he'd be seeing Harry for the next seven years.  _

It was a hollow thought. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for all the kudos and comments on the previous chapter! I appreciate each and every one :')
> 
> unbeta-ed mostly but looked over by lovely people. all mistakes are my own.
> 
> disclaimer: all things recognisable belong to jk rowling (and her publishers I guess).the rest are my own.

 

He was dreaming.

In his waking state it was sometimes hard to distinguish what was real or not. He never had premonitions of himself, so he was never directly involved in a dream - but that didn't erase the fact, that being awake, he was just a spectator anyway.

In his dreams, though, it was easier knowing he hadn't come across these people in real life. He was just getting to know them or, in one particular person's case, was getting to know just another aspect.

His visions never followed a linear pattern either. He wasn't able to pinpoint when and how the differences occurred but they were there: in his current time, Harry was eleven years old, like him, but where he was now Harry was significantly older.

Harry still wore those hideous glasses, bearing more cracks than ever, and his hair was still as gravity defiant as always. The most startling difference was in his face - it held an age old weariness that was stark against his still youthful features.

Blaise stood off to the side, close enough to feel dwarfed next to the, for once, taller form of Harry. There was a hunched look to his shoulders, though, enough to make him seem smaller than he ought to be. Almost vulnerable.

He took a step closer, already aware that Harry would not notice the apparition of a younger boy he had never met before. He wished he could reach out, and not through, to touch him. He wanted to still the shaking of Harry's hands, to bring warmth back to that ashen complexion and deadened eyes.

They stood at the edge of a forest, the trees dense and dark before them. There was a familiarity to sight of the foreboding image but there was a strange tinge to the air - like that of blood and defeat.

Blaise shivered.

It was always disconcerting just how _real_ everything felt. The feeling of being displaced in time was always strange, even after so many years. And, looking at the mixture of sadness and determination on Harry’s face, was so raw as to be an invasion of privacy.

It felt wrong being there. He wasn't supposed to see this. He didn't know the context of what was a dream to him and the complete reality of this Harry.

He didn't know how to help. He didn't know if he _could_ help.

 _Why him?_ was a thought that he asked himself so many times, to no answer. _Why was he seeing this?_

In the background there were sounds of screaming, but it was muffled, a fair distance away. A part of him wanted to go investigate but he didn't know if his dreams extended further than this scene before him.

Harry reached into his pocket, withdrawing a small and insignificant looking stone. Blaise studied it closely, deciding that an exploration could be delayed to a different dream; this seemed important, somehow.

Just as he managed see the inscription on the black stone - a triangle with a circle bisected by a straight line within it - Harry started turning it in his hand.

Once, twice-

 

* * *

 

Blaise awoke with a startle, a hand shaking his shoulder none too gently. He opened his eyes slowly, blinking at the artificial light now filling the compartment.

A glance outside revealed the sky giving away to sunset; dusty pink bleeding into a deep purple, an inky navy blue blanketing the clouds.

Draco stood above him, a nervous smile trying it's hardest to disguise itself as a smirk.

“We're almost there,” he said, as he tried to smooth out his standard black robes with an inconspicuous hand. “I see you've already got your robes on, but you might want to-” he gestured to the side of his own mouth, lips twisting slightly.

Blaise’s hand flew to his mouth, cuff wiping away what he was sure to be drool. His cheeks heated slightly but Draco, miraculously, made no comment, simply sat back down with an amused look.

Blaise narrowed his eyes at him, before smirking himself. His voice likely still gone, he gestured at his forehead with a pointed look.

Draco seemed to understand his meaning, as his face immediately transformed into a sullen scowl. He crossed his arms defensively.

With a sneer and a bite to his tone, he said, “That ruffian _Weasley_ has already cosied up to Potter. Seems to think he's better than me, now. _Me_!”

Blaise raised a single eyebrow and Draco, seeing it, threw his arms up.

“What,” he spat. “All I did was suggest a more beneficial alliance between the two of us. And that, _perhaps_ , the weasel isn't the wisest choice of friends.”

Draco huffed when Blaise continued looking at him pointedly.

“He rejected my hand! He obviously has no taste.”

And that seemed the end of it; Draco was content to stare out of the window, the perfect image of a sulking child.

Blaise shook his head, unsure as to what he could say even if he could talk. Draco had, obviously, taken the wrong approach with Harry, who wasn't one to take condescension as a good quality to have. He _especially_ didn't take being told what to do lightly, considering the type of people who had ‘raised’ him.

He doubted Draco would understand that reasoning, though. He could be very… well, naive was one way to put it.

With the silence stretching and their destination nearing rapidly, Blaise realised he ought to take out the journal he kept on his person at all times. He was intent on snatching the rapidly thinning stream of memories from the dream and twisting them into words.

He felt useless with the contents of it, the information dry and hollow in his inexperienced hands. He was young and, although quite clever, felt weighted with the responsibility to decipher it.

He was a little miffed that the dream had been interrupted, wondered what more he could have seen.

He shook his head. _In time,_  he reminded himself, _in time it would all make sense._

Glancing up, he wondered if the same was true for Draco. He seemed genuinely upset at Harry's rejection; had probably had his own fantasies of being a great friend to the greater Boy-Who-Lived. Perhaps he would learn to look past the initial sting for what it truly was; Harry wanted great friends too, and not in the way Draco defined the word.

Seeing how the pout remained stubbornly on Draco’s pale lips, Blaise went back to his own task at hand. It would take awhile - for both of them.

 

* * *

 

Eventually the train slowed to stop. They were to leave their belongings in the compartments so Blaise simply tucked his journal away and followed the rest of the students out onto a small platform.

It was dark and cold but it wasn't long before Blaise noticed a floating lamp and a voice call out, “Firs’ years! Firs’ years over here! All right there, Harry?”

Blaise’s head swiveled around at the familiar name but there were too many people in the way. It was made more difficult by the fact that many first years had opted to wear the black hats specified on their school lists.

Giving up, he followed along with the others down a slippery narrow path. Thick trees surrounded them, darkening their trek and Blaise gave them a suspicious look.

“Yeh’ll get yer firs’ sight o’ Hogwarts in a sec,” Hagrid, Blaise recognised as the Groundskeeper, called over his shoulder, “jus’ round this bend here.”

A few people let out loud exclamations of awe. The path had opened up to a massive black lake, its glossy surface reflecting tiny pinpoints of stars. Across the other side stood a giant mountain with a magnificent castle perched atop.

Little boats bobbed across the edge of the lake. “No more’n four to a boat!” Hagrid called, gesturing to them.

Blaise made to go to the nearest empty boat, but Draco dragged him to the next one over. “Out of the way, Weasel,” he said, shoving a freckled boy aside.

“Hey!” the boy protested but his friend pulled him away. It must have been Harry, Blaise thought as he stared after them for a moment before stepping into the boat.

Blaise found himself in a boat with Draco and two others he didn't know, Crabbe and Goyle having got lost way back in the commotion of disembarking the train.

The boats moved off at Hagrid’s command, smoothly pulling away into the night.

Draco was staring intently at the other two occupants of the boat, both of whom seemed unnerved at his scrutiny. Blaise rolled his eyes and nudged him slightly with his elbow.

Draco swiveled to give Blaise an incredulous look and, whispering furiously, said, “I was trying to see if I recognised them. I _don't,_ ” he finished with a pointed look.

Blaise shook his head and determinedly turned to face ahead, hoping to catch a better glimpse of the castle. He wasn't touching _that_ conversation, if he could help it. He wondered whether the satisfaction of getting one over Weasley and Harry was wearing off now.

“We _can_ hear you, you know,” said one of them, a girl with smooth brown skin and darker bushy brown hair. Peeking out from the corner of his eye, he could see the very disapproving look she was giving Draco.

“Goody for you,” said Draco, equally coolly, looking down his pale pointed nose. Blaise suppressed a snort.

Draco continued, “And you are?”

“Hermione Granger,” answered the girl primly, jutting her chin out as though expecting a fight. _Clever girl,_ thought Blaise approvingly.

A sneer crossed Draco’s face, “I see.”

“I-I’m Neville,” offered the nervous looking boy, his tanned face darkening when Draco’s eyes focussed on him. “Longbottom. N-not that anyone asked…” he trailed off when Draco turned away dismissively.

“And who are you?” demanded the girl, Granger, her eyes narrowed on Draco and then on himself. Blaise returned the look in kind, she wasn't getting an answer out of him regardless.

“Excuse me?” said Draco, seemingly offended. Whether it was because she didn't know who he was or because she dared to ask him in that tone, it was unclear.

A bit of both, Blaise suspected. Although him expecting a muggleborn to know who he was, was a bit of a reach. As for the other, well, considering his automatic disdain of her, it was to be expected.

“You do have a name, don't you?” said Granger, condescension dripping as though talking to a particularly thick headed individual.

“Of course I have a name!” snapped Draco before his face pinked and he backtracked smoothly. “That is to say… That's none of your concern,” he finished disdainfully.

“How rude,” said Granger but she didn't sound too bothered nor surprised. Blaise rolled his eyes, already bored with the entire exchange. A mistake, it seemed, for that made her double her focus onto him.

“I don't suppose you're willing to introduce yourself?”

Blaise shook his head and Granger sighed and muttered, ‘boys’ under her breath. He didn't see why she had bothered anyway. If it were him, he would have ignored the two of them at the first sight of hostility.

 _Friendly people,_  thought Blaise tiredly. Although, considering the rapid fire way Granger was now reciting facts about Hogwarts to an overwhelmed Longbottom, it was more _insatiable know it alls._

Which wasn't a bad thing, per se, just rather more exhausting than friendly people. Them, at least, you could tell to shut up.

 

* * *

 

When the Hogwarts Castle finally came fully into view, the awe and excitement in the air was unmistakable. Blaise, himself, found it hard not to smile as his heart started beating rapidly.

It was almost as though the castle itself was a projection of the sky, with its points of lit windows lighting up its darkened surface. The many towers and turrets jutting into the sky created a grand air to the building, the aged stone weathered but strong and standing.

Hogwarts was a true testament to its reputation; the oldest and most magical building in all of Britain.

The boats stopped at the edge of the water and, immediately, everyone started climbing out. Longbottom, the last one to leave their boat, nearly toppled back over into the water but Blaise caught his sleeve at the last moment.

“Th-thank y-y-” he started to say before the groundskeeper, Hagrid, called out for the owner of a lost toad. Longbottom ran off. “Trevor!”

“ _Honestly,_ ” said Draco from beside him. “Who brings a _toad_ to Hogwarts? Those aren't pets, they're potions ingredients.”

“Really!” huffed Granger, still sticking close to them for some unfathomable reason. “And what do you know about using toads in potions?”

Draco glared at her. “More than you do, you mu-”

Blaise dragged him off before he could get the word out, rolling his eyes as the other boy protested loudly. He slanted a look at him when they were a sufficient distance away where Draco couldn't enter petty arguments with a silly girl. He made sure the _Really, Draco?_ sentiment was strong enough through his eyes alone.

“Oh, what?” said Draco petulantly. “I wasn't even talking to her, and she had to go poke her nose in other people's conversations. She's the rude one, you know!”

Blaise sighed. Hadn't they just spent several hours cramped on a bloody train? You'd think he'd be too tired to rise to any bait that came his way. And, rude as Granger had appeared, he suspected she had been genuinely curious.

Hagrid called for them to follow him and Blaise, relieved that Draco wouldn't be able to continue ranting, walked along eagerly.

Blaise hadn't thought a building could be sentient, but the moment they climbed the steps to the grand front door, a warmth like a soft hand caressed over him. It seemed to whisper, _Welcome home._

They stood there, a huddled group of nervous first years, as they waited to enter. The chatter had died down as soon as the the imposing door loomed over them. Blaise wondered if any of them could feel the power thrumming through them, just by standing on the front steps.

Hagrid raised a massive hand to knock on the door, the loud boom echoing through the silence. A beat passed, then two, and then the door was opening, revealing a tall witch in emerald green robes.

“The firs’ years, Professor Mcgonagall,” said Hagrid, his gesturing hand passing a shadow over those stood nearest to the front.

“Thank you, Hagrid. I will take them from here,” said the professor, her stern expression unchanging as she led them into the entrance hall.

It was rather large, their footsteps creating echo after echo on the flagstone floor. Through a massive door on the side hundreds of voices could be heard, likely where the rest of the school waited. The professor, however, led them passed it and into a smaller door off the side of the hall.

In their excitement, the crowd of first years all scrambled to be the first to pass through the door.  Squeaks of pain, likely due to stepped on toes, sounded and someone trampled on the back of Blaise’s robes.

Finally, they stilled as they entered a smaller chamber. Stepping to the side, to avoid any further unfortunate feet upon his robes, Blaise then turned to glare at the person responsible for his near fall.

When his eyes met the startled and apologetic eyes of the boy behind him, he froze. It was Harry, untameable black hair and unfortunately round glasses unmistakable.

 “Sorry,” he mouthed. Blaise, faced with the one person he was most desperate to meet could only nod silently.

He abruptly turned back forward, intently trying to focus on the Professor’s instructions. He feared he might do something stupid; like hug the boy just to see if he was real.

“The Sorting Ceremony will take place in a few minutes in front of the rest of the school,” said Professor Mcgonagall, then. Blaise hoped he hadn't missed anything important. “I suggest you all smarten yourselves up as much as you can while you are waiting.”

Her sharp eyes surveyed them all, pausing to look pointedly at a few scruffy individuals. Blaise tried not to be unnerved, he knew he looked impeccable.

“I shall return when we are ready for you,” she said. “Please wait quietly.”

As soon as she left them, the students immediately began talking amongst themselves; the topic of conversation naturally revolving around the upcoming sorting.

A boy behind him spoke about the sorting possibly involving quite a bit of pain, which Blaise personally found to be ridiculous. He tried valiantly not to turn around, aware of who could be involved in that particular conversation. He stilled his nervous hands by clenching them into fists.

“You don't think we're meant to battle a troll, do you?” Draco whispered to him, sounded distinctly worried. Blaise didn't know where he had picked that up from, and decided he didn't want to. “Of course, I know some spells, but will it be enough?”

Blaise graced him with the flat look that his words deserved. This was Hogwarts, a place to learn magic, not a training camp for prospective aurors. He was curious of course, but not enough to lose his head about it.

Behind them, Granger’s familiar voice was obnoxiously informing someone, likely poor Longbottom, how she very much would _not_ like to go to Slytherin.

“From what I've read, it seems like every witch or wizard who gets sorted there turn out to be evil,” she was saying.

Draco stiffened and Blaise reflexively took hold of his arm before he could storm over there. He turned to give Blaise a look, both mixed with a sense of pleading and defiance.

It seemed to say: let me do this, and if you don't I'll do it anyway.

Blaise sighed and let go. _Fine._ He didn't particularly care, but Draco did.

Draco immediately whirled around and cut off Granger mid breath, “You couldn't be more wrong, _Granger_.” He said her name like a relished insult.

Granger set her jaw stubbornly. “The books said-”

Draco cut her off again, “If that's the way you enter our world, trusting everything you read, then you've failed already.”

Granger’s lip wobbled, as though that was the worst insult she could have heard. Draco continued, relentless, “Slytherin is a house for the ambitious, most particularly. Those who are going places. And you couldn't get in if you _tried."_

Just then, gasps erupted around them. At first it seemed that it was a response to Draco’s verbal cut but when the reason revealed itself, he and Blaise turned away. Draco smug for the moment.

Several transparent beings glided in through the wall. Blaise had seen a ghost before, notably an irritable ancestor in the attic of his home. He hadn't liked him much, as he'd had a mean disposition and predilection for ranting about broomsticks. He had seemed rather passionate about the outlawing of carpets being a ridiculous outcry.

Blaise hadn't ever seen that many ghosts in one place and felt rather wary at having them in that already cramped room. Having a ghost pass through one was an unpleasant ordeal he'd rather avoid.

“Hope to see you in Hufflepuff!” said one of them with a ruff around his neck. “My old House, you know,” he said further, as though it were something to be proud of.

He didn't know what was worse: having to be around such a jovial ghost or being in house absolutely filled with people like him.

“Move along now,” said a sharp voice. “The Sorting Ceremony’s about to start.”

Professor McGonagall had returned and her stern look had the ghosts fast retreating through the opposite wall.

“Now, form a line,” Professor McGonagall told them, “and follow me.”

Blaise lined up behind Draco, the blond’s hair sending him an almost irrepressible need to sneeze. It was rather flowery.

They left the chamber and doubled back to the door they had previously passed. The sound of talking was louder as the doors opened and, as they walked in, the feeling of so many eyes upon them had Blaise’s heart rate speeding up again.

It was put to the back of his mind, however, at the sight of the rest of the Great Hall. Four long tables stood parallel to them, filled with the already sorted houses. The badges across the front of the robes and ties proclaimed their colours proudly.

A larger table ran perpendicular at the front of the hall, the more serious and less curious eyes of adults peering down at them.

The image that drew his eye the most was the massive ceiling, it seemed to open up to the sky outside.

The black canvas scattered with stars so beautiful as to look almost real. He knew, without having Granger remind them as though she was the first to know, that it was simply an enchantment.

Professor McGonagall had led them to stand with their backs facing the professors, the staring of the other students much harder to ignore then.

Luckily, it wasn't long before Professor McGonagall was placing an old and rickety stool before them. An even older hat was soon placed on top of it.

Everyone was staring at it and the reason became apparent when the hat began to sing. Blaise stared at it incredulously, what a strange enchantment to place on a piece of clothing.

As the song drew to a close, it was then obvious how the sorting was to go. He didn't particularly like the idea of it being able to see into his mind, but he doubted he could make much of a protestation.

The professor then began reading names aloud, alphabetically it seemed. Blaise sighed and settled in for a long wait.

He knew a few names of notable wizarding families but none enough to grab his notice.

Granger seemed to have a long argument with the hat, fitting from what he'd seen of her, and she sat the longest from those who have been sorted so far. At last, the hat came to a decision but it wasn't what any of them expected.

“SLYTHERIN,” it shouted. Granger walked off confidently, her face revealing nothing but a small satisfied smile.

The green and silver table gave a scattered and confused applause which dwindled off quickly. Blaise traded a look with Draco, whose eyes seemed say _what just happened._

But the sorting continued on.

Longbottom slipped on his way to stool and forgot to take the hat off when he had at last been sorted. Gryffindor seemed a sorry lot so far; he doubted he was anything of what the house valued but suddenly tried to make himself feel infinitely less brave.

It was stupid and didn't seem to correspond with who had been sorted there but he hoped anyway.

Draco’s name was then called and he barely had the hat touch his sleek hair before he was sent to Slytherin. When he sat amongst the other green tied students, he immediately sent a blinding grin Blaise’s way.

Perhaps Gryffindor wasn't so bad, after all?

And then- “Potter, Harry.” rang out. Immediately the tension in the room increased and progressively bored looking students perked up in interest.

Whispers rang across the room. Awed questions of, “ _Potter_ , did she say?” and, “ _The_ Harry Potter?” followed each other as Harry nervously made his way to the stool.

The hat fell over his eyes, making him seem even smaller. People craned their necks to get a look at Harry, staring at him like one would a great hero come to life. Blaise himself felt equally as nervous as Harry looked. He hoped he went to the house he wanted.

At long last the hat shouted out its choice. “GRYFFINDOR,” it proclaimed to raucous applause from the red and gold house and a relieved grin from Harry.

Blaise almost smiled himself but settled for a release of the breath he was holding.

After that, he barely noticed the names flying by until, at last, his name was called. It was just as well, as his legs had started to turn numb from how long he had been standing.

A voice sounded in his ear - or, rather whispered directly into his mind. “Interesting,” it said, “You're a very bright boy, it seems. A lot of… knowledge you have in this head of yours.”

 _I suppose_ , thought Blaise, unsurprised that his gift was the first thing to be noticed by a sentient hat. _Not much I can make use of, though._

“Not yet, you mean,” said the hat, sounding more amused than he ought to. “Slytherin would help you to find the tools to do so. I gather here that you're not inclined to Hufflepuff, nor Gryffindor…”

An image of Harry popped up in his mind. _Well, maybe it wouldn't be so bad._

At that, the hat huffed out a strange sounding laugh. “I see you've been taken in by the Boy Who Lived. Not unlike a certain Slytherin friend of yours.”

Blaise scowled lightly. _We aren't-_ he stopped there. Okay, so somehow from the train ride to here they had become somewhat friendly acquaintances. But he wasn't _taken in_ by Harry.

_He's just important to me. My dreams, I mean. I would like to know why._

“Yes,” the hat agreed. “He is important. And you'll soon See that you are, as well. But it'd better be from SLYTHERIN.”

Blaise sighed and stood up, polite applause following him to the Slytherin table. The excitement had drastically dwindled from the start of the sorting. He could imagine that by his name being the last, everyone was impatient to eat.

Draco scooted over to make space for him and nearly yelped at colliding with a dreary looking ghost covered in silvery bloodstains.

“Watch it, will y-” he started to say before noticing the daunting appearance of the ghost and promptly shut his mouth.

The ghost seemed unbothered, content to stare moodily into the distance. Blaise hoped it was simple moodiness, he wouldn't know how to handle a murderously plotting ghost.

Thoughts of how a ghost would commit murder upon a being of flesh soon left him as soon as the table before him filled with glorious food. The house elves of Hogwarts looked to be cooks of the highest calibre, all the dishes enough to have him consider gluttony.

He thought Albus Dumbledore, the headmaster, might have said a few words but it was likely unimportant. Blaise eagerly started filling his plate, luckily managing to have have kept his poise and not sent food flying across the table.

Conversation started filtering in as soon as everyone's stomachs began getting filled.

“Oh no,” Draco was saying. “He's not talking, apparently.” His voice turned sly as he nudged Blaise. “He's not usually this shy, though.”

“What's wrong?” inquired a burly boy, not Crabbe or Goyle who he didn't think could talk, really, “Walked in on your mum and some random bloke this morning, eh?”

Blaise dropped his fork, the sound of it dropping onto his plate loud as everyone in the immediate vicinity stopped talking.

His glare was icy enough that the boy, whatever his stupid name was, held up his hands quickly. “Hey, no offense, mate.”

“How is that _not_ offensive?” said Draco tartly. “Do learn not to be so crass, Mulciber. It's unbecoming.”

“And I wouldn't talk if I were you,” an East Asian girl with an upturned nose spoke up. “Considering where your mum is.”

A couple of people ‘oohed’ as Mulciber turned a hideous puce colour from the neck up. “Shut it, Parkinson,” he managed to say before promptly turning deaf ears to their laughter and continued eating.

Blaise turned back to his food as well. His mind was unable to let go of the encounter, though. _Maria_ , he thought, viciously stabbing at a sorry looking carrot.

He didn't care that her reputation was so soiled as to garner rude comments. What he did care about was the fact that, even so far away from her, she managed to affect him. That his name, his father's name, was so tied to her Black Widow infamy.

It was infuriating and he _hated_ her.

He should have known that it wouldn't be the silence she cursed him with, but herself that would ruin his standing. He had thought he hadn't cared about social niceties as that - but having so many glances coming his way when he was just trying to _eat._ It rankled.

“Hey,” said Draco quietly. “It's good to have you in Slytherin. I thought you would be, but-” he shrugged slightly, a slight pink to his cheeks, “We're friends, aren't we?”

Blaise looked at him, thinking on how many times he had adamantly denied ever being the boy's friend. And then about how Draco had defended him, in his own way.

He nodded eventually, trading a small smile for Draco’s utterly imperfect one - for all the joy it held.

Draco’s suddenly transformed into a scowl and Blaise followed his eyes. Granger had sat herself opposite them, Parkinson and Mulciber giving her strange looks as they leaned surreptitiously away from her.

“What are you doing here,” Draco said rather than asked, his voice dripping with distaste.

“I was sorted here in case you didn't notice,” said Granger, radiating satisfaction and seeming not to take note of the hostility surrounding her. She leaned forward, her eyes never leaving Draco’s.

“You should know,” she said. “Never issue me a challenge unless you're prepared to _lose.”_

“Noted,” said Draco dully. “Now, I'll ask again: what are _you_ doing _here_?”

Granger frowned and she huffed in frustration. “I told you-”

“And I don't care,” said Draco cuttingly. “Now, leave.” He pointed down the table to where she was sitting previously, alone.

She opened her mouth but it wasn't her who spoke up this time.

“It looks like your words had some sort of impact on her, Draco,” said Parkinson, eyeing Granger consideringly even as she tried not to get too close. It was as though she were some dangerous creature that the purebloods didn't know how to handle.

“Really, Draco?” said Mulciber, then, giving Draco his own strange look. “But she's a mudbl-”

“ _Don't_ call me Draco, Mulciber,” said Draco coldly. It seemed his annoyance at the boy's use of his first name far prioritised over Granger getting insulted. “And _you_ ,” he turned to Granger. “Don't make me say it again.”

Granger seemed ready to argue once more before she, inexplicably, turned to look at Blaise. He returned her look evenly, not sure what she wanted him to do.

His heart twinged in sympathy but he made himself turn away from her large brown eyes. He didn't know  what she expected, placing herself among people she knew to be hostile to her before.

He hadn't been openly rude to her as the others but his silence might have been almost worse; for all that she gave him an unbearably accusing look.

“Fine,” she snapped, walking away with her head held high.

Blaise looked across the hall to the Gryffindor table, at Harry and the friends he had made. He looked truly happy for the first time he had seen. He only wondered what the picture would look like were he sat there.

Probably where Granger was now, looking on as an outsider. It was somewhat sad, the lonely figure amongst a quietly chatting group of people.

It was probably good he hadn't been sorted there; he would have been too cowardly to survive, anyway.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> few things:  
> 1) damn this boy Blaise is **obsessed** hahaha. but yea... reason for that im sure you know.  
>  2) certain characterisations and actions may seem annoying to you rn but that's what character development is for, right? right.  
> 3) who in the world is Mulciber? isn't he a death eater? well, yes. idk where he came from, presumably a relative. also he's in second year I guess? idk don't look at me.
> 
> lastly, please leave kudos and constructive or 'I liked this' comments on your way out :)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is a bit late (time seems to move forever in the fanfiction world at least). but not horribly so, so enjoy :)

With the second day of September falling on a Monday, classes for the students started in full swing the next day. Draco had been oddly excited for lessons and wouldn't keep quiet throughout them getting ready for the day. 

Blaise had slept fitfully the night before, his new dorm inducing stranger dreams that had him waking in a sweat every few hours or so.

Flashing images of indecipherable meaning had played behind his eyelids every time he had tried to snatch more rest. Eventually, with the soft green light filtering through the windows, he had given up on sleep entirely.

Stood with his journal opened up on the desk beside his bed, he had entered as much of the dreams as he could remember in between dressing. He hadn't even had a chance to shower, what with him having stared up at the top of green canopies bed for the longest time.

Even though circumstances had dictated him usually having to rise early, he still wasn't a morning person. 

“You look terrible,” said Draco, serving to remind him of this fact with his usual tact. He stood in front of a full length mirror, light blond curls being forced back into submission through copious amounts of hair potion.

“And I'm surprised you  _ noticed _ , Draco,” he said, or tried to at least. There was the, by now, familiar sensation of his voice being forced down as though by a cruel hand.

With Draco barely bothering to glance up from his preening, the attempt was limited only to himself. For a moment he stood there, head bowed and quill clutched tightly and ink spilling down his hand. It was difficult swallowing the disappointment and anger, but he put it aside for the moment.

Later, he promised himself, he would find the library and find a solution to getting his voice back. He wouldn't let Maria hold this over him for longer than he could help it.

Draco glanced up at him then, grey eyes studying Blaise’s face, who knew held nothing of what he was feeling. Blaise held his eyes for a moment before casually turning to clean up the ink that had dripped like blood onto the floor.

He knew Draco had noticed it, could still feel his sharp eyes tracking his movements, but he couldn't bring himself to care. He felt shattered and barely alive, valiantly hoping he could survive the day.

“Let's go,” said Draco finally, nonchalantly straightening his already perfect tie as though he had noticed nothing amiss.

Blaise eyed him dubiously as they made their way down to the common room. He didn't know how he felt about it beyond the faint appreciation; the underlying note of frustration went unacknowledged.

The previous night, the first year Slytherins had been given the chance to room with a single other student in a two person dorm. Draco had immediately taken hold of Blaise and claimed what was supposedly the ‘best’ dorm out of multiple others. It had been the first room they had entered, so Blaise didn't know how he had decided upon that fact.

As such, at the sight of little more than half of their Slytherin year mates congregated in the common room, Blaise was content with his dorm mate. Constant chattering and confused feelings notwithstanding, he didn't want to have to deal with someone who refused to get up at a reasonable time.

The wall above the fireplace displayed the time by an applied tempus charm. It read: 7:20 am.

It might have been considered Merlin-awfully early in the morning but, as per the previous night's prefect’s instructions, they were to be led to breakfast at half past seven. After which another prefect would lead them to their first lesson. Every new lesson would have an escort so as to prevent them from getting lost in the, as of yet, unfamiliar castle.

As the sixth year prefects were taking time out of their own schedules to do so, any late stragglers would be promptly left behind. They could, of course, rely on their memory or attempt to follow any other older student, but by that point the earlier students might have already departed to the first lesson.

Although Blaise would have liked to have slept in, he didn't envy those who would be forced to struggle through on their own.

“Draco!”

Parkinson walked up to them, her black hair tied into the perfect shape of a cinnamon roll at the top of her head; it added a bit of a severe air to her. Her expression was smooth as porcelain but her dark eyes held as much barely concealed excitement as Draco’s.

“Blaise,” she nodded at him cordially. He paused for a moment, eyes narrowed, before inclining his head slightly. She was already engaging Draco in a conversation about which class was meant to be the most interesting.

“Ah, but Professor Snape teaches Potions,” Draco was saying. “He's the best Hogwarts has had, Father says. I've met him, you know.” 

Blaise turned away, bored with the topic. It wasn't that he wasn't looking forward to lessons himself, but he preferred to see for himself what they were like. He just  wasn't interested in pointless speculation.

Blaise noticed a head of thick curly hair peeking out from behind a massive book that seemed to take up almost half the space on a green armchair. Granger might have thought she was being slick, and the book did detract many wandering eyes, but it wasn't hard to see her less than subtle glances over the top of it.

She seemed to be trying to listen in on Draco and Parkinson’s conversation. Her big brown eyes appearing narrowed above the yellowed pages before disappearing again.

For once, she seemed less inclined to insert her opinion upon whatever it was they were discussing. Which was good, considering how early it was.

“First years.” The prefect from the previous evening, Bletchly or something, appeared then. The tall dark boy surveyed them as everyone quieted down. “Is that everyone? Follow me, then.”

He took off towards stone wall which held the exit, not seeming to care that their numbers were at less than half.

Blaise followed behind Draco, the latter whispering to Pansy at his side. “It really is appalling how  _ drafty  _ the dungeons are. Father didn't mention that, I'll have to write him soon.”

Somehow Blaise had ended up beside Granger and his eye roll coincided with hers. Somewhat startled at the shared glance Blaise couldn't help but narrow his eyes at her. Although nothing personal was meant by it, Granger immediately puffed up at the perceived slight and sped up her walk away from him.

Blaise shook his head, bemused.

Soon enough they arrived at the Great Hall, the sound of chattering students belying how few were actually seated. The blue and bronze table of the eagles held what looked like the earliest risers with Gryffindor and Slytherin equally as sparse as each other. Hufflepuff was somewhere in between but their rowdiness far made up for their missing numbers.

Blaise gave them a wide berth and went immediately to his table. He was already feeling more wakeful but he felt he could tune out the noise more effectively with a cup of tea.

When his mind was sufficiently more awake, Blaise lifted his eyes from the swirl of dark liquid before him. In the intervening time, the hall had filled up considerably and, with it, the noise levels had risen substantially. Naturally, his gaze drifted to the Gryffindor table but was disappointed to find a lack of distinctly untidy hair.

Blaise gathered a guess, and it was probably accurate as he was good at that sort of thing, that it had gone eight o’clock just then. Their first lesson was at nine and he hardly thought Harry to be the tardy sort. There  _ were  _ a lot if students seated though, easily around a hundred at each table; he must have missed him.

Soon, though, he was distracted by a dark and dour man handing out pieces of parchment to the students at their table.

“That's Professor Snape,” said Draco helpfully.

Pansy's nose wrinkled distastefully. “Why is his hair so greasy?”

Draco shot her a look, one which held some unwarranted venom. “It's not  _ greasy.  _ I suppose you think mine is too, then? If you must know, it's a protective hair potion. It's quite respectable for a potioneer such as him.” He puffed up his chest. “A station which I plan to hold myself.”

Pansy raised her eyebrows delicately. “I didn't know you took  _ such  _ an interest in potions, Draco. At least now I know why you choose to manage your hair in such a dreadful manner. It would look much nicer framing your face.”

“Oh, and I suppose your McGonagall look gets you so many compliments,” said Draco snidely and Pansy's hand flew to her hair protectively.

“It's different for girls,” she said, as she scowled slightly.

“So now it's a  _ gender  _ thing. Why don't you just chop it all off-”

Blaise watched in vague fascination and honestly a bit disturbed as the two of them devolved into an argument about  _ hair  _ of all things. It was par for the course really, Draco seemed to bring that side out of anyone given the chance. It was only by the fact that Blaise wasn't talking that they managed to be so civil to each other so far, he figured.

“I hope I'm not disturbing something  _ important _ ,” said a voice above them and the two of them quieted immediately. All eyes travelled to the blank faced Professor, whose snarky tone failed to match his unfazed expression.

“Professor-” started Draco, typically the first to speak. His attempt was forestalled by a single raised eyebrow; Blaise found it mildly impressive.

“Do try to keep your petty bickering to a minimum outside of your common room,” he said after a pause. Draco and Pansy nodded, not daring to protest as the Professor’s dark eyes surveyed them for suitable chastisement.

“Excellent,” he said, which Blaise had no doubt was barely true. He looked a hard to please man. “Your schedules.” He waved his wand and Blaise and his year mates each received a rectangular shaped parchment from the pile in Professor Snape’s other hand.

With that done, he walked off to the next year of students with nary another glance.

“The best, you say,” Pansy said to Draco, her voice notably at the volume of a whisper.

“He  _ is  _ the best,” Draco shot back, equally softly while still managing to sound affronted.

“He seemed mean,” said Goyle - or was it Crabbe? - and Blaise was momentarily surprised at his voice, which was incongruously high. Although, if he thought about it, he didn't know why he expected a deep voice to emerge from an eleven year old, huge as he was.

“He doesn't need to be nice to be respectable. We're not Hufflepuffs,” said Draco dismissively. “Now shut it while I look at what lessons we have.”

That was the end of it as everyone was reminded of the parchment they held. Although, Blaise couldn't help but think the whole thing ridiculous. Especially the bit where it looked like Draco's opinion was the only one that mattered.

“Disgusting,” said Draco idly as he scanned the parchment.

A look at the blocked lessons handily showed which other house they shared a particular class with and Blaise made a mental note to learn the colour changing charm. A majority if it was held with the Ravenclaws, which included Herbology, Transfiguration, and History of Magic. A total of one class with the Hufflepuffs: Charms, which happened to be their first lesson and likely the reason for Draco's disgust.

Only Potions and Defense Against the Dark Arts was held with the Gryffindors, which was personally disappointing to Blaise but likely wise in the long run. More disappointingly, though, was the fact that a midnight class for Astronomy was scheduled every Monday.

Personally, Blaise found it rude.

It was not much longer before the next prefect appeared to show them to their first lesson. Which was just as well, as Blaise didn't think he was up to tuning out another argument.

* * *

Charms started off rather well, if a bit boring. The first half was merely introductory on the Professor’s part as to the fundamentals of Charm work.

Blaise had barely glanced at his textbook beforehand but had no trouble keeping up with the lesson. Professor Flitwick was, perhaps, a bit too excitable but he supposed it made up for the general dullness of theory work.

It wasn't until they were told to practice the levitation charm that Blaise realised something rather important.

Throughout the classroom students were casting ‘wingardium leviosa’ with various levels of success. Someone a few desks away nearly knocked himself out with his enthusiastic wand waving, and Blaise grimaced reflexively.

Watching the other students could only distract him for so long, though, and, with a sigh, he turned to his own feather. He prodded at it with his wand half-heartedly, worry creeping around his heart.

He couldn't  _ speak _ , how in Merlin’s name was he meant to cast? Non-verbal casting wasn't taught until sixth year and he wasn't deluded enough to think he could achieve it.

A cold wash of dread passed over him. Was this the true goal of Maria? To have him feel so useless and wretched, surrounded by his peers performing magic while he sat helpless…

Just when he almost felt himself spiral into a near hysterical downward state, Draco let out a loud exclamation of excitement.

Blaise could not bring himself to do more than glance at the boy, who sat smugly in front of his success. His feather floated, if a bit wobbly, a few centimetres above his desk. 

Blaise attempted a small smile of acknowledgment. He thought he failed spectacularly at even that with the way he could feel his eyes perpetually wide in his distress.

Draco seemed to realise then how still Blaise sat and turned to look at him. His brow furrowed slightly as he caught sight of his feather, pathetically still on his desk.

Blaise’s hand clenched around his wand, the usual warmth of magic present but with nowhere to go.

Before the other boy could open his mouth, a squeaky voice spoke up from just in front of them.

“Everything alright here, gentlemen?” Professor Flitwick's little head peeked over the top of the desk, trying to catch a glimpse of their progress. He was to be sorely disappointed as the feather remained out of view, nowhere visible enough without floating.

“Are you having a bit of trouble, Mr Zabini?” The words were not said unkindly but even still Blaise felt a heat crawling up his neck, sure that several eyes had turned to look at them.

“Professor, he's not feeling well,” said Parkinson unexpectedly and Blaise glanced at her sharply. She shrugged her shoulders delicately at his look, giving nothing away. “Woke up this morning with his voice all gone, the poor dear.”

“Oh!” said the Professor. “Perhaps you should visit Madam Pomfrey, our Medi-Witch. She'll fix you up right quick.”

The little Professor’s eyes peered up at him expectantly but Blaise just stared back blankly, unsure what to do. 

Draco spoke up then, “Don't worry, sir, I'll make sure he goes after the lesson.”

“Excellent, Mr Malfoy,” said Professor Flitwick happily, which made no sense to Blaise. “Five points to Slytherin.”

The matter seemingly settled, he went on his way, leaving behind a smug Draco and the still sharp gaze of Parkinson against the side of his head.

Blaise made no eye contact with either of them, a disconcerting warmth in his cheeks and within his chest.

He had no plans to go to this Madam Pomfrey, however. The problem then was losing a determined Draco and Parkinson, who had  _ still _ not stopped staring. 

As soon as the lesson ended, he was up and out of the classroom before either of their hands could grab a hold of him.

He had a free period next so off the the library, it was.

* * *

Finding the library was perhaps harder than he had thought, and a full two floors and a temperamental staircase later Draco had caught up with him.

Merlin, was he persistent.

“Professor Flitwick is right. This is a bit ridiculous, you know.”

Blaise spared a mild glare at Draco but continued flipping through the tome in front of him. He knew it was ridiculous, that's why he was here in library trying to  _ fix  _ it. What did it matter to him whether Blaise could speak or not? The prat liked to hear his own voice in any case.

“Why won't you go see the Medi-Witch? She'd be able to fix you up plenty faster than you could find a solution yourself.”

_ Shut up _ , Blaise thought,  _ just shut up.  _ He trained his eyes on the words before him, firmly pushing the meaning to make sense.

Draco snapped his fingers as though an idea had just occurred to him. “Or Professor Snape! I know for a fact that there are potions for this. He'd definitely help you; he's the Head of Slytherin, after all.”

Draco thought he knew everything. The way he spoke up into every little silence was proof of that.

Well, he  _ didn't _ know anything, Blaise thought irritably as he paged to another passage. Least of all about this. He didn't know what had happened, what was actually happening. And his confidence and faux knowledge was grating, especially while Blaise was trying to concentrate.

Thankfully, Draco quieted after that, becoming absorbed in a book titled ‘ _ A Pureblood’s Guide to a Dutiful Household _ ’. He was so peculiar.

Blaise shook his head but left him to it. For the next twenty or so minutes, the silence stretched, which was nice.

“Blaise,” said Draco quietly, breaking the illusion and Blaise looked up tiredly yet resignedly. Draco simply pushed his book closer for him to look at, his uninked quill tapping at a particular passage.

He didn't know what Draco thought to be particularly riveting about a household charms book but nonetheless turned to read. 

At the top of the paragraph in bold letters read the heading,  **Vox Furtivæ** , and in smaller writing beneath that,  _ A Charm for the Audacious Child. _

Immediately, he knew this was what he was looking for. The detailing of the spell sounded exactly like Maria's style; so much so that he was honestly surprised she had never used it on him before.

It was a charm designed to curb cheeky children who didn't know when to hold their tongue at the appropriate time. Of course, one could never know what an appropriate time looked like to someone such as Maria.

One thing he knew: Maria had grossly misused the charm, not unexpectedly.

Draco was silent and, when he glanced up at him, it was confirmed to be of the confused kind.

“Your mother…” Draco started hesitantly, falling silent as Blaise’s shoulders twitched irritably at the term. Of their own volition, his eyes lowered defensively, unable to stand the indecipherable look in grey eyes.

“Let's go, then,” said Draco, gathering up his things before standing up and looking at him expectantly. “Well? You saw for yourself that only a fully matured witch or wizard can reverse the charm. I  _ am  _ only eleven, Blaise.”

Blaise sighed, reluctant to admit that he was right but unable to see another reason to refuse.

“So which is it? The Medi-Witch or Professor Snape?” Draco asked as they left the tiny nook at the back of the library. “Personally, I say Professor Snape.”

If that were the case, then Blaise made a turn to the infirmary. He had his pride, after all; after this, he wouldn't have to see the nurse if he could help it, his potions teacher was another matter.

Blaise glanced at the other boy, who simply stared ahead, a peculiar look on his pointed features. He said nothing except to ask an older student for directions to the infirmary, seeming to take his lead on not approaching the dungeons.

It was strange.

* * *

Later, with his throat feeling raw and his ears ringing with the concerned mutterings of Madame Pomfrey, Blaise wandered the halls. Darkness hid him as he slowly moved about, trying to avoid detection after curfew.

Draco had been acting strange - or, well, stranger - after they had left the infirmary. Not a word had been spoken between them, even though Blaise should be capable of it now.

Although, he considered as he rubbed at his sore throat, he didn't know if he was quite up to it yet. His silence was to be expected, if you asked anyone else, but Draco’s was rather more unusual.

Blaise stopped suddenly, his feet putting a halt to his thoughts. There, in the alcove of a window, stood someone, their skinny elbows resting upon the window sill.

The soft white moonlight filtered through the symmetrical panes, painting subtle lines across the smooth brown skin of the boy. It seemed to sparkle upon his windswept hair in a surreal light; for all the world a prince of the night.

Blaise’s breath caught in his throat, probably at the thought of being seen this late at night by anyone, but especially by  _ him _ . Before he could flee into the darkness once more, though, the boy turned around; the speed of which belayed his own startled state.

It was hard to see his expression, bathed in shadows as the moon lit him up from behind, but Blaise thought his shoulders relaxed infinitesimally.

“Uh, sorry,” said the boy hesitantly, as though unsure as to why he was apologising. Blaise related. “I didn't think anyone would be around here this time.”

They both stared at each other then, both at a standstill. When the other coughed and ruffled his hair with an unsure hand, Blaise realised that he hadn't even responded.

He opened his mouth then, embarrassed to feel the telltale flush creeping up his neck, but was waylaid by a soft, “Zabini, right? Uh, Blaise? Sorry, I don't know which you prefer.”

Blaise shook his head, somewhat mystified at the question. People generally tended to assume - or, rather, it went as such: Zabini for strangers or acquaintances and Blaise for friends. He didn't have many of either but the surname was generally a default.

At his head shake the other seemed on the verge of another apology and he quickly said, “Blaise is fine.” 

His voice came out raspy with disuse and a bit squeaky from his haste. He cleared his throat, feeling self-conscious.

“Brill,” said the other sounding as if he were smiling. Blaise tilted his head quizzically and the boy said, “Oh! Harry. I mean, that's me. I'm Harry.”

At that, Blaise was completely helpless at his own laughter, a feeling close to giddiness erupting from his chest. His laughter wheezed from him in between great gulps of air but the other - Harry! - only stilled for a moment before helplessly joining in.

It was certainly not the way he had expected the night, their first proper meeting to go. But, feeling the way his cheeks pulled around his smile, in such an unfamiliar way, it felt right.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> well, it's slow paced so im sorry for the lack of much progress. but progress it is. harry even made a small appearance, yay! in any case, i just felt like i needed to update this. 
> 
> please tell me what you thought of it. i'd love to know. and thank you to everyone's positive feedback so far :') 
> 
> also, im looking for a beta for both this work and other upcoming ones. if you're interested please let me know in the comments with your email or you can contact me through my email, which is up on my profile.   
> thanks <3


End file.
